Brian Knox McGugan appears to be a character straight out of a Hollywood script. Even in the midst of a crowded hotel lobby, I instantly recognized him as he emerged from the elevator with a distinctive white suitcase. This suitcase contained rare imported goods from Thailand, which have become increasingly difficult to find in California and even in the bustling Southeast Asian country where he had just returned from. Although he claims to have a source in Bangkok, he remains tight-lipped about the details. Doubts race through my mind, questioning the legitimacy of his claims made in his Craigslist ad.
Delicately unwrapping the bubble-wrapped items adorned with a Hello Kitty sticker, he meticulously arranges them on the table. His Armani watch shimmers under the dim amber light of the hotel. Curiously, I inquire about the price of the Sriracha sauce. McGugan reveals that the small bottle costs $20, while the large bottle is priced at $27. While these may seem exorbitant for single bottles, other sellers on platforms like Facebook Marketplace and Craigslist have been attempting to sell them for as much as $100. McGugan is just one of many intermediaries taking advantage of the Sriracha shortage. Unless climate conditions improve, this may become the new norm for unfortunate individuals like myself.
The chaos began when Huy Fong, the producer of Sriracha, announced that severe weather conditions had depleted their supply of chili peppers, resulting in an indefinite shortage of their most popular products. As the remaining stock dwindles in Bay Area grocery stores, desperate locals have resorted to stealing stray bottles from a popular Filipino chain restaurant called Senor Sisig.
Sriracha is also becoming increasingly difficult to find in the wild. Only a handful of Bay Area markets currently offer it for sale. In June, Koreana Plaza in Oakland sold bottles for $29.99 each, limiting customers to one unit. In July, Đại-Thành Supermarket in San Jose confirmed over the phone that they had some bottles available for sale, but refused to disclose the price. I contacted a Marketplace seller named Harvey Yang, who appeared to have entire boxes of Sriracha in Elk Grove, but he remained tight-lipped about the source of his supply. However, he did mention that his listings had received over 6,000 clicks in the past week alone.
Jerry Good, an experienced importer of ingredients from Thailand since 1999, believes that this shortage creates a sense of hysteria whenever a product becomes scarce. Nevertheless, he remains confident that the shortage is temporary and advises waiting it out. Good also expresses his disapproval of flea market-style selling of Sriracha, as it goes against the principles of fair commerce, in his opinion.
For McGugan and countless others, the shortage has created an opportunity for a lucrative side business. Although I admire their resourcefulness, purchasing an overpriced bottle of Sriracha in a hotel lobby in Berkeley doesn’t sit well with me. Surely, there must be another solution… or is there? A few days later, I make my way to Little Saigon, my former neighborhood in the Tenderloin. During lunch hour, the Vietnamese restaurants lining Larkin Street are packed with families, tourists, and office workers enjoying steaming bowls of pho.
Rumors have reached me that Golden Lotus, one particular restaurant, might have the sought-after Sriracha in stock. When I called ahead and inquired about Huy Fong Sriracha, the man on the other end chuckled and asked who had told me. Upon arriving at the restaurant, my eyes are immediately drawn to the plastic bottles on the busy tables. Amidst a sea of Shing Kee, two of them conspicuously sport green caps.
I approach the server and inquire about the possibility of a transaction. She relays the message to her boss, who is efficiently handling receipts and credit cards in the back. He informs me that he doesn’t typically sell Sriracha to the public but makes an exception for a price: $30. It’s a steep cost, but as I think about my empty pantry and the waiting ramen kits at home, I know I have no choice. When I agree to the price, he disappears through a door in the corner and reemerges moments later with an unopened 28-ounce bottle that he proudly displays to me. It feels as though I’m beholding a precious treasure.
Although I have accomplished my mission, I am reluctant to leave just yet. The aroma of pho and the familiar sounds of a bustling kitchen take me back to the time when I lived and worked in this neighborhood. During my 30-minute breaks, I would often come to Golden Lotus for a bowl of vermicelli noodles topped with crushed peanuts, cucumber, and deep-fried imperial rolls. The memories still linger in my mind.
As I make my way back to the Civic Center BART station, I find myself on the second floor of Pho 2000, a vibrant Vietnamese restaurant next door. I order a satisfying bowl of vegetarian pho chay, accompanied by crisp bok choy, zucchini, and a plate of fresh herbs, lime, and jalapeño. Every spice is within reach, except for Huy Fong, the vital ingredient that was once so readily available in this area.
Jerry Good, the importer, explains that Vietnamese and Thai cuisine heavily relies on the intense heat of fresh chili peppers, and we are already witnessing a decline in the availability of these essential supplies. This leads me to contemplate the uncertain future that awaits us all and how global warming may further restrict our access to the luxuries we currently take for granted.
With the Sriracha bottle safely concealed in my bag, I finish the last of my broth, savoring every spoonful until my stomach aches.